


Adulation

by GreyNarcissus



Series: 221b in Quarantine [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hand Jobs, Holmes talks a lot during sex, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Old Married Couple, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Pillow Talk, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, Sherlock Talks Dirty, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyNarcissus/pseuds/GreyNarcissus
Summary: Influenza has torn through a quantity of London streets and trapped Holmes and Watson within the walls of 221b. While suffering from Holmes' recent withdrawals and cabin fever, they take to bed for some much needed togetherness.The cold of his skin against the heated flesh was almost too enticing, but instead, John’s focus was on Sherlock’s anguished face. He held his head in both hands and kissed him, softly on the forehead and then firmly on the mouth.“My dearest, it does not matter. Today is only one day. Once this chemical imbalance is out of your system you shall be yourself again. And until then, come back to bed and let me touch you.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 221b in Quarantine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836487
Comments: 15
Kudos: 130
Collections: Victorian Holmes Prompt Box





	Adulation

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**  
>  Victorian Quarantine:  
> What would it look like? What is it for?  
> How would Watson keep Holmes occupied?
> 
> This is a sequel to the first fic of this quarantine prompt duo: Lazaretto.
> 
> This is my first time writing Holmes and Watson smut, I couldn't help but make Holmes a bedroom talker, because Jeremy Brett's wonderful voice lends itself to the image.

There was something about sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes that awed John. He was the finest mind of his generation, an analytical mind beyond peer. And yet lying beneath the cotton sheets and exploring the soft curves and hard lines of his body was a singular delight that he shared with no one else. 

Since the weeks of quarantine that had trapped them within the walls of 221b Bakers Street, things had been somewhat strained. Watson wished he’d known those weeks back what he’d later learned of Holmes’ withdrawals. He wished he’d been able to stop him indulging, or even seen the signs of his irritability as anything other than just a low mood. 

He spared a guilty thought for Mrs Hudson who was now convinced one of her tenants had the dreaded influenza and could even at this moment be spreading it to poor, decent John Watson who had willingly-

With a wicked smile, Holmes bit down on his bare shoulder and Watson started with a yelp. 

“Holmes! What the devil-”

“You were dwelling. I see it in those eyes of yours dear John. When you are finding fault in yourself you drift into a melancholia that I cannot abide when we are making love.”

He pressed his bony cheek against the patch of reddening skin at Watson’s clavicle. 

“Very well then,” the doctor adopted a tone of resignation as he reached to run his hand down his lover’s side, settling on his hip as a teasing anchor point. “What would you have of me, Sherlock?” 

It was a metaphorical Rubicon to bring his first name into bed with them, and Holmes shuddered in response. Propping himself up on his elbow, he brought Watson’s hand to his lips so that he could lay a tender kiss on his palm. There was a deep ritual to it as if with each kiss he was imbuing his lover with the power to work miracles. John knew what it meant and felt his whole body thrill at the implication.

It was the deliberateness of Holmes’ actions in bed that aroused him so. He moaned softly as those lips parted and sank down around Watson’s fingers. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but the act was symbolic. The doctor could barely contain the shake in his own hand as he was released by Holmes bounding off the bed to his dresser. 

Leaning across where he had been lying, Watson turned the lamp up to a warm glow that bathed Holmes’ bare skin in gold. As he did so, his hardening length brushed against the cool sheets and he groaned again. While his lover rummaged through ever-untidy drawers, the doctor lay back on the pillows and began to stroke himself. His view was perfect, the slim arch of Holmes’ shoulder, the swell and curve of his backside, the strength obvious in his firm legs. 

Moving his hand agonisingly slowly, John remembered the last time they did this, how it felt laying his hands on that body. Sherlock’s legs parted for him, thighs tense as a sail, the way his hips rose to meet his hand as it worked him to completion. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning, knowing it was dangerous to give in to temptation so soon, but unable to keep the memories from flooding him. 

That was until Holmes made a sharp noise of annoyance and slammed another drawer close. 

“I cannot find that wretched jar anyway!” He straightened up and ran his hands through his hair angrily, eyes staring at the desk as if hoping it would manifest. 

“Where did you put it after last time?”

“Oh, if I could only remember that, Watson then we would not be having this conversation and we should both be in the arms of Eros even now.” Holmes turned to face him, the lamplight catching at the dark circles under his eyes as he struck his forehead. “It is this  _ thing _ Watson, this  _ thing _ that has taken root in my brain. I cannot remember where I put a simple object in my  _ own  _ room. The withdrawing has eaten my reason and soon there shall be nothing left.”

He paced to the window as if to stare miserably into the alley below, but of course, the casement was covered to prevent prying eyes. In an instant, Watson was with him, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. He made no attempt to hide his conspicuous arousal, nor did Holmes make any to avoid it as he leaned into the embrace. 

The cold of his skin against the heated flesh was almost too enticing, but instead, John’s focus was on Sherlock’s anguished face. He held his head in both hands and kissed him, softly on the forehead and then firmly on the mouth. 

“My dearest, it does not matter. Today is only one day. Once this chemical imbalance is out of your system you shall be yourself again. And until then, come back to bed and let me touch you.” The twinkle in Holmes’ eye was enough to entice Watson to kiss him again, pulling him back beneath the covers and once more drawing him against his chest. 

The weight of his body against his arousal was becoming increasingly distracting, however, and Holmes knew it, even more so after Watson’s involuntary thrust into the hollow of his thigh. Breaking their kiss the doctor was met with his lover’s brilliant grin, the first he had seen for so long it was like sunshine. 

“Perhaps first, you would offer me a chance to offer recompense for my recent abysmal ill-humour?”

As much as his body was crying out for some stimulation, Watson’s brow furrowed. 

“Despite the reason, Holmes, you  _ have  _ been unwell. You are almost certainly mildly feverish and I do not want to push you to-” he was almost startled as he was interrupted by another of Holmes’ sharp laughs. 

“Nonsense, John, utter nonsense. I feel this would be just the restorative I need.”

That was all he would say on the matter before dragging the sheets over his head and vanishing deeper into the bed. It was all Watson could do to detangle the fabric from around his balled fists before feeling suddenly surrounded by the consummate tight, wetness of his lover’s mouth.

Barely able to contain himself, John dropped back onto the bed and choked on a deep groan. It had been too long, and Holmes was singularly accomplished at this act. It was sinful how pleasurable it was. Not just because he was claiming another man’s mouth and not only because that mouth belonged to the finest detective in the world. 

No, the true tantalising sin stemmed from John’s abiding love for Sherlock Holmes. To use him in such a vulgar fashion should have been unappealingly taboo. Rather, he found himself with one bent leg thrusting gently up into Sherlock’s oh-so willing mouth. 

Throwing the bedsheets back with a flourish, the detective met his eyes and sank deeper. John knew this was not to be a long engagement, he had nearly brought himself off with his own hand at the mere implication of Holmes’ nude form. Adding to that the tight bliss of his lips taking him deeper and deeper and he was careening towards completion. 

Holmes realised it too, lifting a delicate hand to stroke between the doctor’s legs.

“Sherlock,” he whispered into the quiet bedroom. It was all the warning Holmes needed as he brought the hand to join in his exploits, stroking John through his climax while his lips swirled lovingly around the head like a prolonged kiss. 

Boneless and ruined, John Watson collapsed fully onto the bed. Now the cool of the sheets had been heated by his body; they held no delight for him and he instead took his comfort in the coiled warmth that spread through his body. 

It, therefore, nearly frightened him half to death when Sherlock Holmes, still wiping the edges of his mouth, sprang off the bed like a jackrabbit shouting,

“Cold cream!”

The dreamy warmth that had been threatening to send Watson to sleep cleared like a kicked bucket of cold water and he sat up. 

“I beg your pardon?”

But Holmes was busy rummaging through a case he had already searched twice, before triumphantly holding aloft a jar of the skin cream he used.

“It’s your cold cream.”

As if to answer Watson’s point, Holmes tossed the jar towards him letting it  _ thwump  _ down onto the bed. 

“No Watson, for what  _ you  _ see here as a jar of Henderson’s Cold Cream, is, in fact, our new jar.” He returned to the bed with a flourish and twisted the lid revealing the dense oil inside. “I struck upon the idea of trading out our conspicuous brown jar for this, that it might be easier to travel with. Of course, I couldn’t capitalise on this idea until I had finished one, so I could only do it during these troubled times.”

Stretching, Watson fixed him with a twinkling side-eye. 

“Do you mean to tell me, my beloved, that it was the act of fellatio that triggered this memory in your mind?”

“Not at all. I think the simple repetitive action allowed my mind to drift until it focused on just the problem I had been worrying at since I returned to bed.”

“I assume I am to take no offence to your mind ‘drifting’ while you tend to me?”

“Oh, Watson,” Holmes chided, reaching out a hand to stroke down the soft hairs on his lover’s leg, causing intense goosebumps on the sensitive skin. “I assure you, you were my primary focus and my joy. But now!” 

Kneeling up on the bed he beamed down at the doctor. He was clearly still quite feverish, and his bloodshot eyes were somewhat wild in the flickering light. He was half-hard now, and more than anything Watson wanted to lean forward and taste him, but he was preempted by Holmes proffering the jar. 

“Darling John, it is not the sublime work of your mouth I seek, but those peerless hands. I believe this is the only medicine that shall see me through my current suffering.”

With a wry smile, Watson got up to let Holmes adjust the pillows and lie back, with his arms behind his head. 

“Is that so? Tell me, Holmes, where did this startling medical opinion come from?”

How the detective could smile up at his lover with the sweetness of angels, while lounging naked on his bed, having so recently allowed another man to come in his mouth, was beyond John Watson. But it was a smile that stirred something in him, even more so when Holmes’ cleared his throat and said seriously,

“Do you mean to tell me, doctor, that given my current state you wouldn’t recommend a  _ thorough  _ examination, at least?”

John finished washing his hands in the basin by the window and took up the towels from the ledge. Bringing them back to the bed he settled down between Holmes’ splayed legs. He was watched closely with eyes that glowed brassy in the low. A pillow had been tucked at the base of his spine to elevate him, and he obligingly lifted his hips still higher to let Watson slip a towel beneath him. 

“Hmm, perhaps I was hasty in my initial scepticism?” 

Confident doctor’s hands parted his legs, skimming over goosebumps. In the silence of the room, the sound of the lid coming off the jar was as enticing with promise as Holmes’ fervent expression. He had always loved to watch his lover work on him as if part of the pleasure came from his academic curiosity. Watson always obliged, by moving with slow precision. First lowering his fingers into the oil and ensuring a good and even coating. Then, with his clean hand resting in the seam of Holmes’ groin, he brought the oil to run between his parted legs. 

“Do you remember the first time you did this for me, John?”

Watson responded with a soft smile, he was absorbed in his task and was only too glad to let Holmes reminisce. 

“You had returned from your club and shed your jacket at the door. I had been waiting to reveal my brilliance with the almond oil another time, but I knew there was no such to prevail upon you. And given how, ah-”

His fingers freshly oiled, Watson pushed one slowly up to breach Holmes. This briefly silenced him, too focused on the act of watching than talking. It gratified the doctor how with just his tallest finger could render Sherlock Holmes speechless. Massaging it in deeper before he slid out to chase more oil. This had to be a slow process, rather than risk harming his lover - especially considering his current fragility. 

“You hesitated, but you could see I would not be moved. You rolled up your shirt sleeves so you might wash your hands.”

Watson could tell that Holmes’ mouth was drying as he worked himself into the second knuckle, teasing with the tip of his forefinger. The faint slick noises coupled with the clear excitement in Holmes’ voice was a heady combination.

“But then you looked so smart and regal in your dark waistcoat and shirt sleeves folded to the elbow. I couldn’t bear to see you strip those trappings off.”

Slowly, slowly Watson let his second finger join the first. Still only shallowly, patiently opening him up, smiling at the memory of that night. Holmes had been so excited to advance beyond their earlier attempts at pleasure, despite Watson’s concerns about the criminality of their actions. 

“You have always had a doctor’s hands, John. Careful, patient.  _ Too patient _ ,” Holmes gave him a piercing look.

Watson raised an eyebrow stilling his fingertips inside his lover. 

“You will not goad me to roughness, Holmes. I shall be the model of loving patience.” 

Arching gently against him, Holmes threw his head back with a frustrated noise before continuing his recollection stubbornly. 

“I was never one of those men to be thrilled by the idea of being  _ taken _ like a catamite. But I had a certain fascination for why such men should risk their liberty for the act.”

Watson took more of the oil in hand and pushed the two fingers in deeper. Rather than simply stretching, he was thrusting now, his movements sedate but firm as he breached Holmes further. This was all he needed, his other digits resting against the shimmering skin of his lover’s behind. The sound his hand made was thoroughly indecent, the tightness of Holmes’ muscles around him brought to mind the gorgeously close heat of his mouth and Watson blushed to think of it. 

Holmes meanwhile was stretching his body to meet Watson’s hand, watching him all the while. The first hint he gave Watson that he’d reached his mark wasn’t in the sudden clenching of his thighs, nor any twitch of his still mostly languid erection, but the sudden, thrilled whine that escaped his lips. 

“God!” he exclaimed, propping himself up on his elbows to watch the doctor’s fingers vanish into his body. “How thoroughly debauched I felt, prised open by those skilled hands.”

Confident in his course, Watson began to knead him soundly, dragging his fingers into his lover with persistence. It took time, but the blush on Holmes’ high cheekbones told him how his ministrations were appreciated. Finally, he was able to use his other hand. Taking a modest amount of the oil from palm to fingertip he reached for Holmes’ unattended cock. 

“How you were able to get so thoroughly under my skin,” Holmes gasped again as Watson’s warm hand stroked him to hardness. “And unravel me utterly, was like music. Oh god, John yes. Just like that.”

He was panting, transfixed by the synchronous movement of delicate fingers and tight fist. Holmes had always loved it just so, tight and controlled. Fascinated by how small precise movements could build into overwhelming gratification. 

He moaned wantonly, arching into John’s clenched hand. Penetrated from one side and trapped at the other, the slick golden oil dripped from Watson’s fist and ran down between Holmes’ legs to fuel the merciless fingers defiling him. 

“And how perfectly you know my body, John,” Holmes was almost talking to himself at this point as if his words were part of the thick arousal that threatened to drown them both. Watson noted that with his flushed cheeks and the sheen of sweat on his high brow it was difficult to tell if he was feverish or stricken with lust. Likely both. “How you can tune me to play such music.” 

Letting his head drop back for a moment, Holmes surrendered to the steady thrum of his lovers’ hands. It was as if both were attuned with his heartbeat. Steady at first, but increasing with the excitement of the deed. His long eyelashes fluttering closed, Holmes treated John to another heady keening moan. 

Reaching his clever long fingers down his body, Holmes swatted John away from his erection. Letting the cool air of the bedroom play on the oiled and heated skin. Threading their fingers together, the detective eyed his lover with an unreadable look of overwhelming affection. Watson did not give up his massaging circles but was struck breathless by the look. It said everything. 

He had never needed Holmes to say the words, he wasn’t a child and didn’t need affirmations to know what was plainly true. Lord Douglas had called it ‘the love that dare not speak its name’ for a reason, he supposed. But more than anything, there  _ were  _ no words for how he felt, only the pang of pride at being the one to bring these looks to Holmes’ eyes. 

With their fingers laced, Holmes reached down to take himself in hand. He could not hope to keep strict timing with Watson and he did not try to. Instead, he gave in to gentle, earnest strokes while clasping John’s hand as though they might fly apart. 

It was obvious by the creasing of his eyes and the persistent hitch in his breathless moans that he was reaching completion, and Watson drank in the sight. Holmes’ legs parted wide to give the best access to his body. The tension across his legs brought to mind a bow strung and ready to be loosed. 

His clever fingers worked complicated rhythms along his swollen erection, the harmony to the steady melody being played by John. But it was the hand that clasped Watson’s that most entranced him. Affectionate and tender, it made him feel necessary in a way he didn’t realise he needed. 

“Yes, John. Oh, my beloved John. I beg you do not stop now. I beg you. Your touch feels so good. You feel so good, my darling. Oh, my love, I am so close.” Holmes whispered to the air, his lips forming a prayer to his lover as he arched, again and again, spearing himself violently on John’s slick fingers. 

He was beautiful. 

When finally it crashed over him like a wave, he had choked ‘ _ don’t stop _ ’ until breathless and nearly crushed John’s hand in his. His body went rigid, save the light fingers milking himself down and onto his thigh. 

The moment hung in the air, trapped in Holmes’ gasped breath. Before he crumpled, flattened against the sweat-soaked pillows, oil and come running down his groin onto the towel beneath. 

Watson knew better than to let it stay that way, especially if they intended to sleep in this bed. He took up the towel and cleaned off first his hands, then Holmes, ignoring the detective’s noise of exhausted annoyance at his sensitive state being disturbed. A damp cloth, the washbasin and some tidying away later, and Watson bustled himself back to the bed where Holmes had not moved. 

“Oh, you’re not leaving are you, Watson?” he asked with eyes closed, a dreamy smile lingering on his face. 

“I wasn’t planning on it, why? Would you rather I left you be?” Watson replied, drying his hands thoroughly on the clean edge of the towel. 

Holmes’ eyes flew open as if he hadn’t been just on the verge of sleep. There was a note of real concern in his sudden admonishment. 

“You cad! How could you think I’d just want to cast you out after our night of indulgent coition?” 

For a moment, Watson was at a loss, genuinely drawn in by the severity of Holmes’ tone. Before his lover’s expression broke into his brightest smile. 

“Do hurry and come back to bed, there’s a dear, my body is going to ache from all this rough use and every moment you are not in my arms is more heat lost for us both.”

Twisting emphatically, he swept his damp hair back from his forehead and buried himself deep beneath the covers. 

Watson watched his lover with such warmth in his heart that it might burst, then dimmed the lamp. Finding his place in the bed by touch alone. Wordlessly he dragged Holmes against his chest, nose buried in his dark hair. 

He could resist the man he loved nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> The reviews, the kudos Urgh! You guys are so kind.
> 
> I’ve been a bit stumped as to my next story so always feel free to ping me with ideas.
> 
> I’m also at MyGreyNarcissus on Twitter dot com.


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